


Fuck love

by UdSoul



Series: Assholes in love [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, I wouldn't call this helathy, Language, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), They kinda both have a heart, Tony Being Tony, Tony Does What He Wants, Tony-centric, Torture, Violence, assholes in love, darkish, kinda protective Loki, triggers probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 15:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UdSoul/pseuds/UdSoul
Summary: He could take a lot of things - torture, neglect, abuse, you name it. Pity...PITY - he won't take!





	Fuck love

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it spiraled quickly :)  
> Enjoy

He was breathing in short puffs of air. The world around him burned. The vile smoke got inside the suit and creeped down his throat, to settle in his lungs and rip them from the inside. He got into a coughing fit, and couldn’t stop; couldn’t get another sip of oxygen.

The face plate clicked, falling off. Tony rolled to the side, pieces of the armour sliding from his body, like broken LEGO. His heart was beating erratically, and coughing did not subdue, but at least now, he could suck in a short breath.

The fire was dancing around the mutilated concrete, and steal props moaned under the assault. The part of the roof cracked and fell. Tony barely had time to wiggle out of the way.

His body hurt. By brief estimation – a broken rib, twisted leg, and, probably, shattered wrist; not to count mild-concussion and slice on his hip.

Fuck, did they miscon-fucking-calculated.

The shithead in a tin-can didn’t seemed to be threatening, and his _robots_ – they stank worse than shit itself – didn’t pose a big danger. But, to his fucked-up luck, the fuckboy practised parol tricks, and that ... that brought him, and the annoying Powerpuff-girls, down.

He tried his comm, but it gave him white noise and fried, and to make situation _better_ , two grey boots stopped infront of his face and he was grabbed roughly by his hair and dragged, like a useless sack of potatoes. Fucking fuck covered in fucks!

“Hey, Tin Woodman!” Tony growled, trying to get himself free from the hold. He, knew, that the probability of it happening was close to zilch, but the nerve the fucker had! “I’m flattered by your cave-men courtship, but, I’m kinda in cahoots with The Wicked witch, so, back off!”

The cunt didn’t slow down or addressed him in any way, up until he was thrown rudely into the middle of what looked, like a throne room. Fuck, the arrogance of those super-villains. If anyone at all had a potential to be the Dark Lord – Stark bet his ass it would be Loki – no one else was eligible, and certainly not the tin-can.

“Hm…” The fucker drawled. “Maybe if you scream…”

Tony’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“What the fu…”

He screamed, and cursed, and screamed some more. The bastard tortured him, burning his skin from his bones. It ate it slowly, brining hellish pain, and Tony was vocal about all of this. He wasn’t above that. He was in pain, and thought it stupid, playing it tough. He wasn’t tough – the suit was.  At some point, it started to sip into his head. The Afghanistan popped out, and long forgotten embrace of the desperation and certain doom touched him. He willed himself to stay still; to remember that this time there is one person who can track him down; will care enough to do it quickly or so he hoped.

The godly jackass he relied on didn’t show up – not in an hour, a day, three. The Avengers weren’t willing or simply couldn’t. Tony slipped into the dark place easily.

Funny, how you afraid of hell, and, then suddenly – hell is the only thing you know. They say you should talk about it. They say it will become better. They lie. You cannot talk about it. Your mind shrieks from the reminders. Your consciousness blocks the trauma with vigour. At very best you can say – it happened and put the rest into eloquent, heavy silence. People do not get that. Loki does.

Tony chuckles; a gurgled, pathetic sound. Blood, mixed with saliva and vomit, spilled from his broken mouth and trickled down his chin. He must look _amazing_ by now. He must be _shining_. Another blow came. The cunt decided some time ago, that magic didn’t satisfy his need for contact, and was beating him the old-fashioned way. Tony immitted a snigger, and got another blow, but it did hurt less.

What?

Stark spit, well, tried to anyway, and earned a series of nasty punches, that should have fractured something or even maim, but pain didn’t come.

Alright. The knight in shiny armour has arrived.

Tony focused his gaze, barely able to see the blurry shape of his torturer; the hematomas fucking with his sight, but was fairly sure Loki was nowhere around.

Logical.

So, he annoyed the tin-fuck a bit and faked a black out. The _captain-genius,_ predictably, left.

When he was alone, finally, he tugged the chains, and they crumbled. The moment they did, he was, suddenly, standing outside; bright light and fresh air assaulting his body. He moaned from the sudden change, but didn’t have time to get sick. Magic pierced him roughly healing his wounds, leaving him breathless and shaky. He would have fallen, but steady, familiar, chill hands caught him.

“You utter…” Tony started, but Loki bent to kiss him swiftly, smiling brightly, saying: “Hold that thought, pet” and disappearing for about thirty seconds.

“You were saying?” He re-asked, back to holding him tightly.

“You are a bad, bad master, look how poorly you care for me.” Tony teased, deciding that horrible screams he can hear from here were enough to placate him, and then grabbing Loki, pulling him down into a savage lip-lock, missing the thoughtful glint in Loki’s eyes.

<<**>>

He was staring at the alabaster skin, drulling over the prominent curve Loki had. He ran his fingers up the pale flesh, delighted by the silken texture, admiring the view and unconscious smile, that appeared on the God’s lips.

While being plenty of affectionate, awake Loki will be not caught dead showing this side of him; his embraces; his hold, his kisses, words – were designed to show that Stark was important **thing** he OWNED. Tony was a pet of a ruthless, merciful God – nothing more, nothing less. When he slept, though…

Stark remembered the first nights Loki stayed; everything made him tense; every insignificant sound and shift – wide awake, ready to attack. The God hurt Tony on many occasions, trapped in the haze of sleep, but gradually – little by little – Loki relaxed, till the point, Tony could drag his hands and lips along his gorgeous body, and the God won’t even stir.

That expressed more than any love letter ever could. However, he didn’t care about that. After all, Tony Stark didn’t do _love_ – obsession, possession, ownership – the darkest of the darkest loyalty – yeah. Love – fickle, rosy, fairy-tale bullshit – nope; not his style. Not Loki’s either.

He smiled, scraping the skin gently.

“Fuck, you are beautiful.” Tony praised, captivated by the soft, relaxed lines that enchanted him. The view angelic, and the knowledge, that this being was far from it – the perfect deception – enthralled.

“Don’t you mean handsome?”

 _Hah, here he is - the devil himself,_ Tony thought fondly. The green eye that was picking out from raven hair, became curious, upon not receiving an immediate snark, and the God blinked slowly, willing himself to become awake. He turned, to fully face Stark, and Tony didn’t fight the gentle smile that bloomed on his face. He stretched his arm to brush those cheek-bones gingerly and adored the unbridled wonder that overtook Loki.

Yeah, softness was not usual occurrence between them. It signified something, as well as, compliments.

They rarely praised each other, settling on action rather than verbal expression. They didn’t know how to speak without biting; how to express emotions without sounding sarcastic or sceptical. They both were wordsmiths and knew how cheap syllables were, as well as how precious when told in the right moment; and this, Stark believed, was exactly it.

“No. I meant beautiful, like a work of art; wickedly unconventional, but definitely makes you feel something.”

The vulnerable shine in those hardened by wars and horrors eyes; the shy curve of that sinful mouth; the slight rosy-hue on those immoral cheeks – was all that Tony needed to feel accomplished.

“What does it make you feel?” Loki questioned, stretching his arm to curl his fingers possessively around his hip.

“A lot of disturbing things.” Tony admitted, diluting truth with tease.

“Like?” The God didn’t’ give in, and Stark sighed inwardly. Trust the jackass to use a moment of weakness against him, but, two could play this game.

“Like a prissy teen-age girl. I was cross with you, bastard – couldn’t you, I don’t know, come faster, instead of allowing that fuck to have his way with me. I feel violated.” Tony whined, crossing his arms for good measure. 

The grip on his thig tightened, and Loki dropped his eyes for a millisecond, to return with a guarded gaze and carefully tuned to nonchalance tone of voice.

“Wasn’t we talking about art?” He offered, and Stark bit down the grin of victory.

“We were.” Tony obliged. “But, honestly, that was embarrassing. I screamed, like a pussy; must be my easy-going life these days, which…” He drawled, going to straddle the God, whose gaze darkened considerably, lips falling apart to allow an appreciative growl to escape. “I have you to thank for.”

Stark leaned, grinding his hips. Loki met him half-way, kissing impatiently.

<<**>>

The next couple of weeks that followed were extremely bizarre. Any emergency he was called to was either _magically_ resolved or ended shortly after he arrived. If, heaven forbid, he was engaged in a conflict – nothing – and he meant it – nothing at all, could touch him.

Well, he had a fucking good guess who was responsible, and for the best part, wasn’t complaining. Firstly, he got plenty of free time that he could spent on his two favourite things – making science with the God and fucking him or Loki … you know. Secondly, not being hurt - seriously rocked!

But there were several things that bothered him. For starters, Avengers were giving him odd looks, and started asking too much questions for his comfort. He, also, missed the action. The fights were his unwinding period – and he was kinda deprived of it; which made him more irritated and snappy.

But, mostly, he was worried that Loki was pitying him, and, that – THAT – was not fucking OK. That was degrading, mortifying, hurtful and pissing him off royally.

Thus, after another, none-battle he landed on the roof, Jarvis taking the suit off, while he was storming down into the living room. Loki, was, already there – the trademark smirk in place, a glass of scotch in his hand. He looked unfairly appealing, but Stark saw nothing but taunt in it.

So, he came close and punched with all his might. It didn’t do much damage. The feeling was comparable to punching a steal wall or something; his hand bruised, but it was worth it.

“Don’t you dare humiliate me!” He hissed at the perplexed God, and stalked pass to pour a drink.

By the time he fixed it, Loki was already pass the initial shock, and was standing near the bar looking at him appreciatevly.

“I distinctly remember your displeasure with a low pain threshold. I might be able to help with that.” Loki murmured wickedly, a pair of handcuffs, a choker and a dagger appearing on the table.

Stark looked at the merchandise, then into those temptingly promising green and dawned his drink, smirking at the God.

“Positive reinforcement a must.” He bargained, watching Loki literally stalking him in all his wild glory.

“Oh, pet, you’ll be surprised.” He promised darkly and Stark moaned wantonly. He, already, was.


End file.
